Another Christmas
by r4ven3
Summary: A Harry-centric story. It is Christmas 2012, just over a year after Ruth's death. Whilst sad to contemplate Harry having to face yet another Christmas without Ruth, I hope that this story is more uplifting and hopeful than it is tragic. One-shot.


**_A/N:__ Unlike most people, I am not a fan of Christmas, but I hope you enjoy reading this story. It begins sadly, but it ends on a note of hope._**

* * *

_25__th__ December 2012_:

Harry sits at his desk and gazes across the Grid, aware that he has chosen to spend Christmas morning at his place of work because it is here that he feels closest to her. Random bunches of balloons and tinsel and streamers jar mockingly amid the bland geometric design of the workplace beyond his office, and he stares at the place where her desk had once been. The section Christmas party two nights ago had been less uncomfortable for him than the one the year before. Last Christmas had been only weeks after Ruth had died, and he'd hardly been in a Christmassy mood. Last Christmas had been painful, so painful that he'd chosen to drink his way through it, and so his memories of it are sketchy at best, but he remembers being bundled into a cab by Calum and Dimitri, and then waking next morning in his own bed, fully clothed, and with a massive hangover.

Last year he'd risen early on Christmas morning and visited Ruth's grave. He'd stood there in the cold for over an hour, thinking of her, remembering her face and her smile, and trying to remember why it was his life still had value and purpose even though, other than in his memory, she was no longer a part of it. After a while, he'd realised that he was talking to her aloud, as though she were really there, and that's when he'd turned and left.

He'd gone from the cemetery straight to the Grid, where he'd stayed until late afternoon. By the time he again arrived home it was four o'clock, and the sun was setting. He'd pulled into his driveway to find Catherine sitting in her car waiting for him.

It was last year, on Christmas Day, as he shared an impromptu meal with Catherine at six o'clock at night, that he'd first told her about Ruth.

"Dad, why didn't you tell me that you had someone? I wouldn't have … you know …. minded. I've only ever wanted you to be happy."

Harry had allowed the tears to fall, impromptu expressions both of joy and sadness. Joy that his daughter had wished him to be happy, and sadness that his Ruth was not there to share their meal.

"Oh, _Dad_," Catherine had said, as she'd hugged him while his tears fell, silently and freely. "I just wish I'd met her."

"I think you would have really liked one another," he'd managed to say at last.

"Tell me about her, Dad."

And so he had.

This year – 2012 – he has a plan.

He knows that were he to drink his way through Christmas Day 2012, he'd wake up next morning feeling like shit. He is sitting in his chair, surveying the Grid beyond his office window, for a reason. The bottom drawer in his desk is locked. A couple of weeks after Ruth had died he'd locked away some memories of her that he'd not the strength to revisit until now. For the first time in over a year, Harry reaches down and unlocks the bottom drawer. From it he lifts a manilla envelope, a plastic shopping bag, and a small jeweller's box. He places them on top of his desk, and closes the drawer.

Before he leaves to go home, he steps out on to the Grid and walks to the place where Ruth's desk used to be. The desks have been (deliberately, he believes) rearranged so that the space Ruth's desk had occupied is now a walkway between two work stations. He moves on into the corridor which leads to the kitchen. There is a place where the corridor takes a slight left turn, and everyone knows that this corner is a CCTV coverage blind spot. It was on this spot, only two years ago, after he'd given away Albany, on the night he'd received the phone call from the Home Secretary to tell him `the buzzards are circling', that he'd come across Ruth on her way to the kitchen to make herself a late night cup of tea. She'd stopped him to ask what was wrong – how well she knew him – and then she'd reached up to kiss him on the cheek, a kiss of comfort and support. The touch of her lips on his cheek had taken him by surprise, and he'd had to grasp both her upper arms with his hands to steady himself. Her lips had been so warm and soft, and her fragrance so intoxicating, that he had turned his head so that his lips met hers.

That kiss is now burned into his memory, where it will remain until the moment of his own death. It was a kiss which spoke of their love and longing and desire for one another. The kiss had begun gently enough, lips soft against lips, but had fast become needy and hungry and _so_ full of yearning. Her hands had slipped inside his overcoat and under his suit jacket, where she'd moved them up and down and around, over his shirt, turning his skin into highly charged electrical receptors, while his hands had wandered over her back and down to her buttocks. When they came up for air, they'd clung to one another in case they fell over, their breathing heavy and erratic. After a while, they'd pulled away from one another, staring at each other, their eyes still hungry, in awe of what they'd done.

"That was -" he'd begun to say, but not sure how he would ever do the kiss justice in words, when she'd pulled away from him, her fingertips on her lips, like they'd been stung.

"I have to …... Harry, I need to …..." and she was gone, down the corridor, and away from him.

He'd stood, barely able to hold himself up, his legs jelly-like, and wondered what had triggered the kiss, and why it was Ruth had walked away from him.

Standing now on the same spot where they'd exchanged that kiss, never to be spoken of again, he finds that he has placed his fingers against his lips, the memory of that kiss still there, and now he knows why she'd hurried from him. He understands her. That kiss had proved to them both that separately they were Harry and Ruth, a couple of ordinary people who worked far too hard, while together they were ….._ so powerful_! Together they could power the Grid for a year, and that was a scary and confronting prospect. That kind of attraction needed to be handled with kid gloves. Harry still regrets that they didn't do anything more together than that one amazing kiss, but at least they had that, and he will remember it always.

* * *

He is now back home, and Catherine has offered to bring Mark and Graham, and she'll make them all Christmas dinner. Harry has had to give his son plenty of space to find his own way back to him, but so long as he doesn't make judgements of any kind, he and Graham are doing fine. He has less than an hour to go through the things he brought home from the bottom drawer in his desk, so he carries them upstairs and sits on his bed, the manilla envelope, plastic carry bag, and jeweller's box spread out over the duvet.

He puts the jeweller's box aside for now, and eagerly opens the plastic bag and draws out three of Ruth's scarves, all of which she'd worn regularly. Soon after she died, he'd gone to her house and let himself in. He'd gone through some of her things in search of a few items which reminded him of her. He had some of her books, a few pieces of her jewellery, her pillow – which still sat on `her side' of the bed – and the scarves. At the time, the scarves had smelled so much like her that he had put them away in the locked drawer where they couldn't trigger painful memories. He had kept her pillow on his bed for what he called `emergencies', times when his grief was so acute that he would struggle to draw breath. At these times – usually late at night as he was chasing sleep – he'd grasp her pillow to him, and breathe in the smell of her. He would hold her pillow against him as though it were her body he was holding, and find comfort in telling himself she was still with him.

He lifts the scarves from the bag, and holds them to his face. They still smell of her, not as strongly as before, but he can still detect her fragrance on them. He buries his face in them until he feels the familiar release of tears. Rather than blocking the tears, he allows himself to cry quietly into the scarves. When the pain is no longer sharp, he gathers the scarves and lays them over her pillow, on `Ruth's side' of the bed.

He then opens the manilla envelope and empties the contents on to the bed. Scattered over his duvet are photographs, and all are of Ruth. He has gathered them from many sources, but mostly from those who had worked with her. Malcolm had had numerous photos of her on his hard drive, and even several were of he and Ruth together. Malcolm had cropped and enlarged the photographs of he and Ruth, and Harry has purchased some frames. He figures that today is the right day to frame the photos and put them around his house. He is ready to be reminded, wherever he is in his house, that Ruth was once part of his life.

He busies himself until he has eight photos in frames.

His favourite, the one of he and Ruth laughing at the camera at the Grid Christmas party two years earlier, he places in pride of place in the sitting room. It is hard to miss, and is a clear declaration that they were something to one another, and what they had together – while mostly unspoken – was genuine and tangible.

The one of them in conversation one day on the Grid, he puts on a shelf in the kitchen, and one of her in serious mood he stands on the small table by the window in the dining room.

A small one of her working at her desk goes on the shelf above the hand basin in the bathroom, so that he can see it while he's shaving each morning.

Three, all of them taken on the Grid, of them together in conversation (Malcolm has always been a man of quiet and stealth) he keeps for his bedroom – one on his bedside table, and the other two on his dresser, flanking the photo of he and his two children.

The last one, his favourite, of her looking at the camera in the way she'd look at him which had always taken his breath away, is to go on his desk at work, because that is where he spends most of his time, and he is now ready to be reminded of her. He no longer wishes to drink in order to block such memories. He cherishes every memory he has of her.

* * *

Catherine and Mark and Graham arrive together, and they are in the sitting room, all talking over one another when Catherine notices the photograph of Harry and Ruth laughing at the camera, their heads close together, so close that a few strands of Ruth's hair had tickled his cheek, so that as the camera had captured the moment, Harry's smile was wide and relaxed. It is a truly beautiful photo of the two of them together.

"Dad," Catherine says, "this is new, isn't it? I haven't seen that before." Catherine picks up the photograph, and takes it to where she has been sitting next to Mark. "This is Ruth with Dad," she says. "I told you about her. She died just over a year ago. She and my Dad were in love, and ….." Catherine stops suddenly, realising that she may have said too much, and besides, Mark already knows about Ruth. She looks up at Harry to see he is smiling.

"It's alright, Catie," he says gently, using her childhood name. "I'm slowly coming to grips with …... losing her. I have photos of her all over the house." Harry takes a big breath, and then smiles. "This might be the right time for me to be giving you this," he adds, stepping across to the shelf beside where the photo had been. He picks up the jeweller's box, and hands it to his daughter.

"I have to admit that I'd been keeping this to give to Ruth, but …... well, you all know what happened."

Catherine opens the box carefully, and takes out the gold engagement ring with the small emerald surrounded by diamonds. The stones are inlaid into the gold, and it is clear that the ring is very old.

"Oh, Dad, are you sure? What if …..?"

"What if what, Catie? My heart isn't free to give to someone else. I'd planned to give it to Ruth because I wanted to marry her, and it was still possible we could have had children, a normal married life."

"It's Grandma's ring, isn't it? How come you didn't give it to Mum?"

"Your mother and I were married in the 70's. Old things – antiques – were out of fashion. We wanted something bold and new and flashy. I held on to it intending all along to give it to you, and then I met Ruth, and …... well, you know the rest."

Catherine stands up and puts her arms around her father's neck, just like she'd done as a six-year-old. She kisses his cheek, and then rests her own cheek against his. "Thank you, Dad. I love you."

"And I love you, Catie, and I know I don't tell you that nearly often enough."

Catherine then pulls away from her father and looks down at Mark, who is still sitting on the sofa. "Is it time now?" he asks Catherine, who nods.

Catherine and Mark stand together in front of Harry, while Graham wanders over to join his father, having felt mild embarrassment at Harry's and Catherine's show of emotion. Not his cup of tea, really.

"Mark and I have an announcement to make. Well, two, actually," Catherine begins.

Harry has a fair idea what is coming, but is prepared to act surprised.

"Mark and I have two things you need to know." Catherine looks at Mark, who appears pleased, but mildly embarrassed. "The first is that we're planning to get married in August, so Grandma's ring is going to come in handy. The second thing is that we are expecting a baby in late May."

Harry had pretty much guessed right. He'd noticed that Catherine was wearing a bulky jumper, and as he'd hugged her, he was sure he'd felt a slight protrusion in her lower abdominal region that had to be more than seasonal over-indulgence.

"This is good news," he says, shaking hands with Mark, and then kissing Catherine on the cheek. "What do you say, Graham?"

Graham nods his head and smiles. He's pleased for Mark and Catherine, but all the same, it's a lot of fuss over two events which hadn't happened yet. He thinks it best to wait and see how things pan out. After all, he knows more than most how easily and quickly life can morph into a pile of crap.

"There's just one more thing," Catherine says, halting the murmurs of congratulations. "Dad? We've had genetic testing due to there being Downs Syndrome in Mark's family, and we know that we're having a girl. Mark and I have discussed this, and …... we wonder how you would feel if we …... if we named our little girl Ruth. We both love the name, and old names are popular now."

"There was a Ruth in the Bible," Graham chips in. "That's pretty old, then."

"Since when do you know what's in the Bible?" Catherine asks, but Graham just shrugs his shoulders.

There is a silence while they wait for Harry's response to Catherine's question. Catherine can see the sheen of tears in her father's eyes, and she hopes she hasn't upset him.

"I think that's wonderful," Harry says quietly and carefully. "She'd be honoured to be remembered in this way. Thank you, Catherine …. Mark."

No-one quite knows what to say to that, so in the meantime, Mark has opened a bottle of champagne, and has poured three glasses, plus a glass of lemonade for Catherine. When four hands are each holding four glasses, Mark lifts his glass aloft and says, "To Ruth." Harry, Catherine and Graham each lift their glasses and together repeat the toast, "To Ruth," and they each take a sip of their drinks.

Harry looks across at his daughter and smiles. Through her, through his granddaughter not yet born, his Ruth will be remembered always. This is already a wonderful Christmas.


End file.
